


We Get (Got) Together. And The World Falls (Fell) Apart In An Instant.

by CescaLR



Series: The Backstory Collection. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Secrets, Frontotemporal Dementia, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Self-Hatred, Sheriff POV, Stiles POV, Stilinski Family, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse, also this is just the Stilinski backstory for allll the fics I do, and pre-my fic's 'verse, but also technically during, eichen house, future/present Magical!Stiles Stilinski, kind of, the fic jumps around time periods, this is not happy. At all., you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: This is a story about a family. A family that starts off strong; happy and loving and whole and healthy.(Oh /god/, were they healty then.)It's a story about how all of this happiness, all of this love slowly, excrutiatingly so, falls apart.This story, is of course, about the Stilinski Famliy. (And what my wife might have done, when I was too useless to see the obvious.)





	1. Reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay....  
> So, I've tried to warn as best I can for this, but if you've ignored any and all the tags and stuff, or you're alright with it, I suppose it's time to start, eh?  
> Okay, so I have done very little research on the topic of FTD, but I have a little web thing open whilst writing this; sorry for any inaccuracies.  
> Also I cannot profess any sort of decent ability with polish as a language, so any wrong things there are because I don't actually know how to speak it and I find any and all of it on the internet.
> 
> Edit #1: This was in far, far too many series. So I put it in it's own series, The Backstory Collection, which will contain backstories for characters which are lacking them. Obviously.

The night is cold, and his son is out ( _somewhere, anywhere, why doesn't he know where?)_ , and the burn of the Jack hits the back of his throat like it always does, and as he's done for (far to many) years, he swallows, drinks the alcohol and little by little hates himself more.

The Sheriff places down the glass, and pours himself another. Drinks it in one go.

This time, once he's poured the glass, he ponders his drink, rolling the tumbler between his hands and watches the drink, disinterestedly mesmerised, as it very nearly spills over the rim on every tumble, every sluggish press of his drink-addled fingers; slow, slow and clumsy.

He drops the glass, and this time his son ( _And why should he need his goddamn teenage son to do this for him?)_ isn't there to stop it from shattering.

The glass hits the floor, it's crash loud in the empty house, echoing in his head and reminding him of what's missing.

 _'Small gulps, Mój drogi', she smiled at him, tilting her wine glass in invitation for another serving. He poured the red wine in, half full and she tilted it backwards, took a sip. 'Unless you wish to not remember this evening - didn't you say you had something planned, or was that all in my head?' her smile grew, and she seemed to find it difficult to drop it enough to take another drink. He said something_ (He now can't quite remember) _and she laughed, a light, airy sound like bells from the heavens, that as the night went on grew warm and deep, her eyes sparkling with anything and everything good in the world in that one moment. 'Kocham Cię', she whispered to him, as if it were some secret that should be kept close to the heart, lest it disappear. 'I love you too, my Kochanie'._

 _And with a smile like sunshine, she leaned towards him and stole a kiss, a quick fleeting thing that was both everything he needed and nothing compared to it, all at once._ (And she was right; she always was. He barely remembers the rest of the night; too many large gulps taken throughout it. She'd laughed at him in the morning, of course, and refused him the right to painkillers.)

 _'Serves you right',_ she'd said. ' _for being too drunk for any use, Najdroższa.'_

Oh, what she'd do if she could see him now, he thinks.

(What she would have done if she'd seen him then, is what he's really asking.)

The Sheriff of this small town makes the mistake of looking up, and he sees the reason for his relapse ( _because that's what it is, Stilinski; no use sugar coating it.)_ hanging innocently on the wall.

The anniversary of his wife's death day is circled in bright red marker on the paper calendar, a stark contrast to the pale blue tones of the worn writing underneath it.

And staring at the calendar, Mr. Stilinski wonders, _where did we all go wrong?_

The answer lies in his past; and he knows it, has always known it, ever since then and always even before it happened.

(Frontotemporal Dementia shows symptoms before it's diagnosed; he's heard the behaviour patterns of some victims mimic those with bipolar disorder.

He should know; his wife had been incorrectly diagnosed by a useless old man who didn't care about anything but money.)

* * *

 


	2. And so it begins; years before it even started.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day was a Saturday, with rain like sheets pouring down outside the window.  
> The man who will one day be the sheriff, though is now just a deputy, thinks it fitting.

The day was a Saturday, and the weather was mimicking the mood the two young adults were feeling; the rain coming down in heavy sheets, making the outside fuzzy, blurry and completely unreal to their eyes.

Deputy Stilinski was sitting in the waiting room, hands clutching tightly onto the arm rests of the seat that was situated right next to the door of his wife's doctor's office, doing exactly what the name of this room, more a hallway, suggests.

Waiting.

Claudia had smiled softly, reassuringly, and told him to _wait, my dear. I'll only be a moment._

And so he did.

For about half an hour.

now, of course, he was tense; the knucles of his left hand white with the force of its grip, the index finger of his right tapping once every minute on the side of the armrest.

_Wait. Tap. Wait. Tap. Wait._

It was another fifteen, or thereabouts, when his wife had left her doctor's office, and sat down next to him.

_Wait. Tap. Wait._

She placed her hand on top of his, and squeezed lightly.

There was silence for a few more minutes, and they watched other people with appointments pass them by, some even bringing their children, some whose children were the ones with the appointments.

'He thinks I have bipolar disorder.' She told him finally, after what seemed like eons.

The white knucles of his left hand grew somehow whiter.

'No.' He said simply. 'We need - second opinion -'.

She looked at him sadly; he saw it in his peripheral vision. His jaw clenched shut.

'He's what we can afford, you know that.'

He didn't mean to grind his teeth, but he did, and her expression grew sadder. 'And even if we could, Moje szczęście, it would be out of town; and where would our son go?'

'We could - some camp or another. Schedule it in the summer' he argued, but knew it was futile. When she had her mind set on something, his _Kochana_ would never change it.

'He's too young.' she reminded him, but even that concession, the idea that when he's older she may go find another opinion, was a signal to how worried, how scared she actually was.

Neither of them knew anyone with bipolar disorder, neither of them knew what it fully entailed.

'In a few years, maybe.' she said. 'when he's old enough.'

'two thousand and one, then. he'll be six; a summer camp at that age is normal.' He said, and when she agreed he realised how much she was affected in full.

'We'll save up.' she promised. 'I'll find a part-time job.' 'We'll need a babysitter' he told her, and she grimaced. 'We can work it out. I'll do day shifts, you take night ones.'

She was determined, but this was a kind of determination he could be, would be, _is_ on board with, so he nods and she takes his hand from the armrest, turns it over and holds it gently. She squeezes, a promise unspoken, and stands.

They leave the doctor's, and get in the car. They drive home.

* * *

 


	3. And so it begins.

The man, now less young and a sheriff, is again sitting outside a waiting room, clutching onto the seat with white knuckles. 

His wife leaves the new doctor's office, and sits next to him. In a mockery of the doctor's visit a few years back, they again watch complete strangers go and find out better or worse information than they have gotten now, had for years (and years and years).

Claudia has tears threatening to spill out of her eyes, he can see it in the bright sheen and reflection of the lights on them. 

She swallows, and takes his hand, laces their fingers together.

'Frontotemporal Dementia. She thinks.' his wife said, and his jaw clenched as he stared at her from the corner of his right eye. 'She can't be sure though.' 

'We'll go to the hospital.' he said, with a sigh. 'Beacon Hills. 'Stiles -' he sighed. His son had few friends. 'He can... go to Heather's.'

Claudia nodded, silent and strong-willed as always, and he wonders not for the first time how she deserves this.

She's not the type to do wrong things; she did marry a cop, after all.

She smiles at him, eyes tired. Hands him her new prescription, and he wonders how they're going to tell their son. 

(Maybe they won't need to. It's cowardly; but Stiles had managed to figure this out before they had. In his worry, he'd compiled a list of possibilities. This, of course, was one of them. Their son was uncannily perceptive sometimes; far too much so for a six year old. At times, he found it unnerving.)

(Claudia never did. He thinks maybe its a bad thing that he does.)

 

 


	4. Things can change in mere moments; hours, in the scheme of things, are nothing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Stilinski is out, for a few hours. When he comes back, he ignores the telltale signs he should pick up on.  
> (Ignorance is bliss. At the same time, it isn't, and looking back he wonders how he didn't notice it.)

As the Sheriff pulled up to the driveway, new batch of his family's prescriptions in hand and thinking of ways to apologise for the delay; there was a case, an annoying one, that had gotten shafted over to him (for reasons he's never, will never, understand).

Mr. Stilinski feels a sense of...  _something,_ a bad feeling in his gut and instincts  _screaming_ at him that there's something  _horribly wrong._

The lights are out inside the house, though small mercies; his wife's old jeep is still in the driveway. 

The sheriff pats Roscoe on the side as he goes (cautiously) towards his house, opens the (unlocked, why is it unlocked?) door with a creaking, loud noise, and enters the hall. 'Claudia?' he calls out. 'Stiles, son, you there?' 

A small, almost-seven year old boy pokes his head out from behind the kitchen door frame, and shushes him. Stiles gestures and in a loud whisper, tells his dad 'Mom's sleeping."

At seven, Stiles had not let learned how to lie through his teeth, and the Sheriff could see slivers of fear and worry and  _hurt_ in those bright (whiskey) brown eyes, usually so full of happiness and other, lighter, emotions. 

Sheriff Stilinski dropped his keys into the tray on the side table, near the door. He walked over to his son, and pretended he'd not caught him out on it.

'Where is Claudia, Stiles?' His son shakes his head, rapidly. 'Sleeping' he repeats. 'On an object which you can sleep on.' 

The Sheriff holds back his annoyance, and lifts up the prescriptions.

Stiles deflates, glowers at the brown paper bags and huffs a small, childish huff, then folds his arms.

The sheriff sighed. 'They help make her better, Stiles.'

'No they don't' his son said, stubborn. 'I looked at the side effects. Have you ever looked at the side effects?' 

The Sheriff sighed, again. 'I know about them, Stiles, but the medicine stops her from getting any worse.'

'Or any better', his son grumbles, but he snatches the bags from his dad's outstretched hand and grabs onto him with his free one. His son drags him outside, and  _of course_ his wife would be in her hammock,  _where else would she go?_

(Certainly not to the roof. She hates heights, doesn't want Stiles falling when he tries to get to her.) 

'Mom' Stiles says,  _asks,_ uncertain. 

The Sheriff is saddened that, sometimes, rarely, she asks  _'who?'_

(And unknown to him, sometimes, more often, she says: ' _fuck off.'_ _'Go away'. 'I hate you.')_

His wife is unresponsive, as she is sometimes, and his son sighs.

'She won't talk while you're here.' he says quietly. 'She - she feels like 'like a burden', sometimes. She won't talk while you're here.' The boy ( _no more than a child)_ explains, then repeats, and the Sheriff feels as if he's being punched in the gut repeatedly. 

'Alright.' He says, wary, because he knows the mood swings she can get, remembers them from that fucking pamphlet. He hates to say it, but he does. 'Be careful.' he tells Stiles, and the young boy nods, serious, and he wonders when it all went so wrong.

(He's known for a while now. Years and years and years.)

(And years.)

(The Sheriff misses his wife's glare in the dark. His son, however, does not, and he flinches.

_This is all his fault._ )

* * *

 

 


	5. And the worst is always hidden. Family Secrets Are To Be Kept, and Never Told.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mother is a wonderful woman.  
> Sometimes.  
> Mostly.  
> (Okay, maybe very rarely as of late, but he remembers things from when he was younger; when they were happy. He knows things have changed, okay, he's not stupid. Maybe a tad too trusting of her, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE TAGS ARE VERY MUCH APPLICABLE.  
> Thankfully, not physical Child Abuse (oh god the 'yet' implied there hurts why am I writing this) but definitely most of the rest.  
> YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. IN ALL CAPS.   
> ALSO. FRONTOTEMPORAL DEMENTIA IS NOT EXACTLY ACCURATELY DISPLAYED IN THIS STORY. I AM NO EXPERT, AND I DO NOT WISH TO CAUSE PROBLEMS. which is why i whish whatever she'd had had gone un-named just given the affects of, so we don't have this mis-representation problem, but oh well. DON'T TAKE THIS AS FACT IN ANY WAY.

Stiles likes to think of himself as a good person. 

(Mostly. Okay, but fifty percent on a good day!) 

A good person with ADHD, Anxiety, a Sheriff for a dad and -

Erm. 

Well.

He has a mother. Had a mom, yeah. Not so long ago. Remembers when he was little(r) and they'd play together, and she'd tell him fantastical stories of magic and witches ( _'druids, Stiles.)_ -  _druids,_ and werewolves.

But no vampires. That's just silly. 

_Anyway._

(He hoped dad would come back with the Adderall soon. His thoughts were  _everywhere_.) 

But he has a mother. Now. 

(Let's not dwell on that.)

The day had been good, by his standards. Went to Heather's, saw Erica at the park, made her laugh (she'd been sad), may or may not have stared at Lydia, managed to not punch Jackson in his stupid(ly pretty, but also just stupid) face, and had ice-cream. With Heather. 

(She's his friend. He thinks.)

And now he's home.

His mood has been sufficiently ruined.

(Here he'd been, hoping his day would be good. But no, his dad just had to get held up at work, didn't he?

_Gah,_ he hates his job sometimes.)

(Okay, all the time, but never mind that. Back to mother. Mom. Whatever.)

She's doing the vacant stare thing again.

She does this a lot. Stares off into the distance, doesn't acknowledge his existence.

He's happy with that. Well, not happy, but you get the idea. He doesn't know the word yet, but he's whatever it is with that.

_Anyway. Times three hundred, two thousand and fifty six point seven seven one._

It's better than one of the alternatives. 1 out of 4 isn't the best odds for her to be his mom, is all he's saying. Thinking. Telling himself. Whatever.

Stiles sits in silence at the table, until he feels too hungry to stay there, and cautiously looks at his mother as he gets up. She doesn't (seem to) notice, so he quickly scampers (quietly) into the kitchen, and grabs what he can reach; some bread and some - _eugh -_ lettuce, from the fridge, and makes himself the worst excuse for a sandwich ever conceived by man.

At least it's food, he thinks optimistically. ( _wait.)_

_(That's not what he's supposed to think is 'optimistic', is it? His psychiatrist said so.)_

(She'd be gone soon. For some reason, he changed them often.)

He sighed, perhaps too loudly, in relief. 

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he tensed, waited.

The woman wearing his mom's face leaned casually against the door frame, arms crossed. She was smiling, as per usual, but that was never a good indicator to her mood.

(He'd learned that the hard way.)

He'd also learned to wait until she spoke, that was the easiest gauge of her mood.

(She'd only ever been in moods one through three, never four. A combination of the three, only two or just the one, but  _never_ four. This gave him some form of wary relief.)

'Fuck, son' she grinned. 'you made you're own - what was it?' she frowned. 'Crap. Uh, bread and -' she waved her hand, lazily. 'butter thing.' 

He didn't dare correct her. She stared, and he swallowed. 'Uhm. Sandwich.' he said, softly and her frown grew.

'Shit. Can't believe I forgot that.' Her frown deepened further. 'This is all your fault, you know.' She said, blithely. As if talking about the weather. 'Should never have fucking had you. Bastard.' The woman muttered.

She froze, and her expression fell.

_one out of four._ he thought, distantly, as she started crying. 

' _No.'_ she cried, her voice breaking. ' _I won't.'_

Oh. Three out of four, then.

(It had been a while since one, though he still held out hope.'

_'He isn't he isn't he isn't.'_ Claudia whined, collapsing to the floor. 

Stiles stared.

_Well, fucker. Aren't you gonna help your mom?_ A voice eerily similar to his mother's whispered into his ear, and he jolted, jumped.

The boy dropped down next to his mother, knees banging painfully against the floor.

He hugged her, tried to offer what little comfort her could. She curled up against him.

' _He's not trying to kill me.'_ She whispered. 

Blinked.

' _He is killing me.'_

At that, Stiles back peddled, pushed himself away from his mother before she became aware. 

She looked at him, dead in the eye, and uttered the words 'You're trying to kill me, aren't you?'

He shook his head rapidly, and she  _growled._ 'Look at me!' she demanded, and he did, eyes shining with stubbornly unshed tears. She scoffed. 'What're you _cryin'_ for, ya big baby?' she demanded. 'Man up. 'Fore I get rid of 'em for you.'

She frowned. 'That could do with some work...'

Whilst she was muttering to herself, he hastily wiped away his tears.

(Stiles remembered something a teacher had said in close range, once, about another. _'crazy bitch. Takin' her pain out on us when we've done nothin' wrong.'_   _'John'. Came a reprimanding voice. 'I know', he'd sighed. 'Not around the kids.'_

He thinks it's fitting, yet somehow not.)

His mother sighs. 'Just - get outta my sight, would ya?' she asked. And, as an after thought, 'Unlock the back door. Might go for a kip. An' turn off those damn lights - eh, what was your name again? Whatever - would ya, there's a good kid. Migh' wanna go 'ome too, I ain't much company for a little'un like you.'

She laughed, and walked.

He hurried on in front of her, unlocked the back door as asked, and turned the lights off.

(He still hadn't finished his 'sandwich.' He was no longer hungry.)

(The medication couldn't come soon enough. Even if he does hate their side effects.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch my heart.


	6. The days go on; they get longer and longer and longer...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, things only get worse.  
> (The Sheriff once heard Scott talk of regression to the mean; the good will always balance the bad. He'd like to ask, when he's more drunk than he should be, how the less-than-enough wage Melissa gets is balance for her kicking Agent (Asshole) McCall out and all the crap that's happened to the teen and his friends in any way makes up for the minimal good stuff in the grand scheme of things.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present, sort of. You'll see.  
> (basically I needed a short break from sad/terrifying Claudia stuffs and so we're now in present-ish day/ninth grade.

It is the same day, and the same hour, and the sheriff is still drinking, still staring at nothing.

His son is still god-knows-where (but also probably doesn't, knowing Stiles) and he's still there, in the silent house, drowning his sorrows.

He hates thinking about  _those_ times, the events he'd figured out but could never  _ask,_ _why would he ask when Stiles doesn't remember?_

(Oh, yeah. Stiles suppressed _those_ memories; Sheriff Stilinski can't exactly blame him for forgetting. 

He wonders if Stiles is aware he's forgotten them. If he knows, that he's missing memories of his mother.)

(He worries he'll want to remember.)

So he moves on. Stops thinking about her alive and broken, and thinks of  _after._

Of Stiles, after, to be more specific. 

So he rolls his bottle - the glass still shattered on the floor - between his hands.

And thinks back.

* * *

He was on duty when he got the call. 

 _'Mr. Stilinski,'_ the teacher, a man around middle age by the sound of his voice, started. ' _Your son recently got into a fight with one Jackson Whittemore. Now, we know there has been some... tension, between the two, but this was too far, this time.'_

The Sheriff closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

* * *

 

(Stiles got into a lot of trouble, in those days. There's a reason no-one bullies him, or Scott.)

(If Theo had stayed, he wouldn't've been bullied either. But his sister died and they had to leave. Stiles hid it, but he was devastated. The Sheriff worries he'll develop abandonment issues, sometimes.)

(Heather and Erica had left a few years back, left Stiles' close friends circle when Claudia died and the Sheriff -

Wasn't the best parent. And didn't organise play-dates for the kids. Like Claudia always did.)

(These are the reasons Stiles was only ever friends with Scott, for a long time. Half a decade is a long time to go with only one friend, for a kid. The Sheriff thinks.) 

* * *

 

He sighs.  _'Alright.'_

The Sheriff stood up, and walked over to the deputy. ' _Hey, Tara. I - Stiles' school called.'_

Tara looked at him, and sighed, then leant forward onto her desk.  _'Again?'_ She asked.  _'What was it for? We got all his homework done, over the weekend.'_

The Sheriff feigned ignorance.  _'Hell if I know. Cagey bunch, his teachers.'_

She nodded, and her mouth drew a grim line across her face.  _'It'd be best if you went, then. I'll cover for you, Sheriff.'_

The man nodded, and left, feeling the eyes of his co-workers following him, burning into his neck. 

(He refused to look back, to show any shame even if he felt it. His son's a good kid, he  _is._ He's just having a rough time of it, that's all.)

* * *

 

Stiles hadn't  _meant_ to hit him. Honest.

And besides, he's only  _eleven._ One little punch isn't going to - 

Oh. 

_Lydia says I broke his nose._

_Oops._

Well. It's not like its  _that_ bad, he can just - snap it back into place, right? That's how Stiles has seen his dad do it, in the past, when he whacked his face into the liquor cabinet.

And yeah. Stiles knows what  _liquor_ means. He's not  _stupid,_ you know. 

(He also knows that his dad was probably indulging in said liquor - if you know what Stiles means by that - at the time. He's not  _dense,_ you know _.)_

So - well. 

If you're wondering what happened, Stiles may or may not have punched Jackass (he heard one of the older kids call someone else that, and it sounds fitting so he's gonna roll with it) in the face, and it may or may not have felt pretty good, and he may or may not be slightly (okay, very, but we're talking in maybes here) angry at (the world)  _him,_ you know. 

For trying to steal Scotty's inhaler. That's just not cool, dude. Scott could  _die_ if he doesn't have it, he could  _wither up and die._

Stiles is not having that happen, okay? He rather likes Scott, in all his awkward, crooked jaw-ed and kind personality-ed awesomeness. 

He just happens to have Asthma, and a long gone (alcaholic, 'accidentally' abusive) father. That's cool, Stiles happens to have ADHD and Anxiety and a whole heap of emotional issues and suppressed memories ~~(of his mother)~~ , but it's all good. He'll just take care of the both of them. 

He can be good at that, if nothing else.

(If not at making people stay, and not  _die,_ and not  _leave him behind._ )

(Like Theo. Evil, stupid Theo. He may or may not hate Theo. He doesn't fault Erica or Heather, though, its not their fault. He feels they'll be better off without his certain brand of emotional baggage anyway.) 

So yes. Stiles will not let a preventable death happen, even if it means getting his hands metaphorically dirty. 

Y'know.  _Priorities._

He has those. 1) Family. Keep them. They must be safe, and they must be happy. Scott is family, Dad is family. 2) If necessary, keep people ignorant of things that could hurt them. Ignorance is bliss, or so he's read, and so he'll use that to keep them safe. 3) Do. Not. Let. Lydia. Martin. Die. She's too good for this world, too good for him, but she deserves that Nobel Prize, or whatever it is she's gunning for. 

And Four.

Do. Not. Give. Benefit. Of. Doubt. Trust instincts. If they scream 'Evil!!!' at the top of their metaphorical lungs, hate the person and don't think twice. If they don't, but they're wary, think twice. Analyze, gather evidence, possibly stalk for the greater good. If they're happy, then that person's cool and you should like them.

Stiles thinks these are easy enough rules. If only he'd come up with them earlier; it might've saved him a lot of heartbreak. 

(He doesn't know why he thinks this, aside from possibly Theo, but that would be silly because that's only one person. He rather thinks its his mother, in truth, but he can't grasp at  _why._ He thinks it might be those memories. He's pretty certain it is, actually, but he's not about to tell the psyche woman about it. She's gonna change soon, anyway. They always do.)

So.

Back to the present, wherein some teachers are yelling, and his hand is clenching again so he should - 

And yes, Scott is the best because he knew what Stiles was about to do; he's already taken the inhaler, gently, from Stiles' white-knuckled grip. 

Lydia's ushered Jackson over to a bench, and the wuss is crying his eyes out. 

 _Come on_. It's only a broken nose. Stiles knows for a fact they've both had worse before. 

(If this crying nonsense is because of Lydia, he swears the next time he'll have a - a  _goddamn reason_ to cry. Manipulative Jackass.)

(Stiles may be a little angry. His mother's birthday - or, what would have been her birthday, was she still living, would be in a week or so. He figures its okay to be angry so close to the date.)

Scott frowned, at Stiles obviously, and used the puppy-dog eyes and the guilt-causing voice that only a Scott could accomplish, and as always Stiles felt that settle on his shoulders like some sort of coat of - of something. Guilt.

Whatever. His eyes aren't looking at Scott, because as always guilt makes him nervous. 

 _'You didn't have to do that.'_ Scott said, and Stiles couldn't help the sheer  _derision_ he feltleaking into the scoff he made at that statement.  _'And you think he'd have given it back? Really, Scotty?'_

Scott frowned more, if that were even possible, and looked at Stiles disapprovingly.  _'We could have told a teacher.'_

Well. They  _could_ have, he'll give Scott that, but see - he didn't. And so Stiles punched Jackson. It's logical, really. Scott's too nice to tell on him, too nice too naive to think it wouldn't happen again if he got Jackson in trouble. 

Now Stiles is gonna get in trouble, sure, but if the Jackass knows any better, he'll leave them well alone for a while, and Scott won't get the short stick.

Stiles will. But, well.

(He's used to that.)

Teachers are yelling, again, and he sees Erica standing in the background, next to a boy with curly hair he hasn't seen before or at least doesn't remember if he has, and again feels a smidgen of guilt for forcing her to find new friends.

_(It's for the best. She can't have found anyone with similar issues, anyway. What are the odds of that?)_

(Stiles resolves to find that out, actually. He can use his computer, do some incognito searches. It's cool. He'll figure it out.)

* * *

 

When the Sheriff arrives, the principals office is in total chaos. 

Stiles is sitting there, silent and staring, and Scott (His best friend, now Heather and Erica and Theo are gone) is on the next chair over, quiet and concerned.

Not for himself, the Sheriff knows. This isn't the first time they've been in this situation.

(He knows it won't be the last.) 

The adults are acting more like children than the  _actual goddamn children themselves,_ which is highly embarrassing. For them. 

He catches his son's eye, and tries to conceal the amusement (and fails miserably; Stiles has always been good (too good) at reading his old man. The Sheriff wonders if he should be such an open, readable book to his son, but honestly if it keeps them healthy he doesn't care.)

His son smirks, Scott catches it, looks to the Sheriff and can't help the quiet snicker. Stiles shushes him, pats him on the arm and leans back guiltily when the adults turn around. 

 _'Didn't we ask you-'_ There was a pause, the tone changing from angrily annoyed to polite and civil when the teacher sees the Sheriff.  _'-Sheriff. Ah, you're late.'_

There was a longer pause. The teachers that he knows shouldn't be there scramble, and keep their shifty eyes away from him. Once they've left, the teacher that was on duty, Whittemore and his son, and the principal take their seats. 

 _'Sheriff.'_ The principal greets.  _'You understand why we are here today?'_

Sheriff Stilinski isn't a stupid man, and he knows this procedure like the back of his hand.

(Stiles would be angry if he ever found this out, but the Sheriff is actually almost relieved that Theo is gone. There were far more of these sorts of visits when he was around.)

He sits down.  _'Principal',_ he greets back, lacking their name the way they left out his.

Jackson glances at him, his badge, and  _gulps,_ an obvious thing and his father frowns in annoyance.

 _'Hello Jackson.'_ He greets. ' _Mr. Whittemore.'_

The man nods to him, curtly. The boy presses his ice pack to his nose harder. 

The Sheriff's smile is nothing if not pleasant.  _'So I heard my son punched you in the face.'_ He says, bluntly.  _'Can you tell me why, Jackson?'_

 _'Why?'_ Whittemore asks, letting the slightest morsel of incredulity into his voice. _'I should think it obvious. The boy has anger issues, and he really should have a psychiatrist.'_

 _'Jokes on you.'_ Stiles mutters.  _'Already got one.'_

Scott looks surprised; the Sheriff realises this is one of those things Stiles keeps to himself to 'protect' him. He thinks it ridiculous, honestly. Stiles could do anything and Scott would stay his friend, he's sure of it. 

(This surety scares him slightly, sometimes, but he thinks Scott would hold his son back from anything too dangerous.)

(Or illegal.)

(Scratch that.  _and_ illegal.)

Whittemore pauses; he'd obviously not expected this.  _'Then I suppose he needs a better one.'_ The man stalls, for a moment.  _'I don't mean to offend any; but may I ask which medication he's on for it?'_

The Sheriff stills, and the principal looks at him askance, gaze wary. Scott looks at Whittemore like he's an idiot, and Stiles'  _scoff_ is loud in the room.

(Jackson gulps again, and tugs his father's sleeve. The man gently takes his hand off of it, and pats him on the shoulder.)

 _'My son does not have anger issues, Mr. Whittemore.'_ He says simply.  _'Stiles is on medication, yes, but for ADHD and Anxiety, if you must know._ _'_

 _'Adderal. Xanex, sometimes, but that makes me tired and teachers don't like it, so I have to mix up the anxiety meds.'_ Stiles pipes up, 'helpfully'.

(His eyes are narrowed; glaring at Jackson. Maybe he's trying to make him feel shame, or something. He can never really guess his son's ~~mot~~ \- reasons for the things he does.)

 _'Thank you, M-' 'No, no.'_ His son protests.  _'Stiles. It's Stiles.'_ The Principal sighs, but acquiesces; He must have not known how to pronounce it. Not many do. 

_' Then thank you, 'Stiles', but that will be all.'_

The Sheriff frowns, and the Principal pauses. He coughs, then shuffles around some papers to stall. 

The Sheriff frowns further, and Scott shifts in his seat. The man coughs again.  _'Your son punched Jackson, and broke his nose.'_ The man explained.  _'Suspension is, rather quite necessary this time. It's a shame that Theo is no longer here; he seemed to be the less well mannered of the two.'_

The Sheriff frowned further, and he almost felt the glare his son was sending the Principal. The man coughed, again.  _'What I mean is - while he caused trouble, he also seemed to know the limits.'_

The Sheriff did not like the implication, not one  _minuscule_ bit. 

 _'Have you asked why my son punched him?'_ The man looked incredulous.  _'Why - Why ever would - he punched someone; it musn't go without consequence.'_

 _'And it won't._ ' He said cooly; Stiles grimaced, slouched down.  _'But it is rather odd that you seem so against asking why.'_

Scott, for once, spoke up. The Sheriff was unsure why; previously, he'd been content to sit quietly, Stiles speaking for the both of them.

 _'He took my inhaler.'_ Scott murmured, glanced up then quickly looked down again. Stiles looked to him, concerned.  _'He said he was gonna -'_ The boy cut himself of. He glanced at Jackson, who had obviously not learned the art of subtlety quite yet, as he was glaring rather openly at the other boy. Scott looked down.

Stiles spoke up.

 _'Jerkface over there said he was gonna flush it down the toilet.'_ He said, angrily, ignoring the Principal's reprimand -  _'Stilinski'_ he'd said, sharply - for calling Jackson 'names'. 

 _'Stiles.'_ He said, wearily.  _'What he did was wrong, and I'm sure Mr. Whittemore will treat his child the same he expects of me; considering flushing Scott's inhaler 'down the toilet' could have had dire consequences, such as, in the worst case, his **death -**_ ' And there, Jackson flinched, grimaced and a form of guilt crossed his face before it was gone. 

He held his head higher, slightly, and  _that,_ now that was a problem waiting to happen.  _'_ _\- which, to me seems a worse outcome than a broken nose. Don't you think so, Principal?'_

The man swallowed, nervously, looking between the two most powerful men in the town.  _'Ah, well - both are undesirable outcomes, Sheriff.'_

He nodded. ' _They are. And believe me, Stiles and I are going to talk about his behaviour, but if you are to suspend him it is only fair to suspend the one who **endangered another's life,** don't you agree?' _Here, he looked to Mr. Whittemore. The man sighed.  _'A week.'_ He said, as compromise.  _'A week, and then back. They are to be in separate classes, Principal. Understood?'_

The ageing man nodded rapidly.  _'Of course, Mr. Whittemore.'_

The Sheriff nodded. 

 _'I will pick my son up at the usual time.'_ he told them. The Sheriff turned to his son.  _'Spen the afternoon wisely, Stiles. Then a week to think about your actions. Tara will help you keep up with schoolwork -'_ Scott piped up.  _'I can bring it 'round, if you want Mr. Stilinski.'_ He smiled.  _'Thank you, Scott.'_

The man turned and inclined his head to the others. He turned, and left.

Once he was out, he sighed, shoulders slumping. The Sheriff rubbed his eyes, then walked out of the school, got into his car and went back to work.

He grimaced.  _Paperwork. Crap._

* * *

 

The sheriff had just opened another bottle when he hears the telltale _click_ of the front door that is unavoidably loud in the silent house.

 _Crap._ He thinks, but doesn't put away his drink. He just pours himself a generous measure into his (newly acquired from the cabinet) glass tumbler, and takes a swig straight from the bottle. 

"Yo, Da-" Stiles stops, standing in the doorway. He glances at the calendar, and all cheer falls from his frame. He slumps, and his expression falls, and the Sheriff can't  _stand_ to look at him when he looks like her and he's as drunk as he is. 

Stiles sits in the chair across from him, and stretching out one long limb he takes the whiskey bottle, caps it and places it on his side of the table.

He's blocking the Sheriff's view of the calendar, and he knows that it was deliberate. 

His son leans over, grabs the tumbler and places it next to the whiskey bottle. The Sheriff is so far gone he just ignores it and doesn't care.

_Because she's dead, and has been for far, far too long._

(And he hates himself for missing her, even the false her, the one that had been in her place the last months, the her that is her and yet isn't, because Claudia would  _never_ have treated her son the way she did and yet she did, so, there's that, in the end.)

He sighs, Stiles does, and stands. He goes over to the shattered tumbler and picks up the glass. If his son were anyone else and the Sheriff didn't know any better and wasn't drunk, he'd tell him to not do that with bare hands. And yet, his son does, and somehow never ever gets cut by the glass, even then and always now. For some reason, before and after the Supernatural, neither of them had ever given it any notice. 

Perhaps they should. Perhaps they would(n't). 

(Who's he even kidding? They'd never talk about it. Not if it disturbs this careful balance they've got going on.)

His son is quiet, his movements subdued and careful, as if each step was considered and calculated to remove even the slightest flail, the slightest lack of smoothness of movement, and it's odd and not right, and it hasn't been, not since the Cloning. 

Not since  _he'd_ gone and separated himself from Stiles. Or the other way around. No-one rightly knows. 

_(Perhaps they should take pause at their belief that he even **could** do such a feat. Then they think 'well, it's  **Stiles',** as if that's any good reason, and the matter is dropped like a stone. A hot stone. From a fire pit. A burning, horrible, pain-causing stone.)_

Stiles' shoulders straighten. He moves with purpose; takes the whiskey and empties the tumbler into the sink, puts it down. He then goes to the cabinet, and takes all of the rest of the bottles, and leaves the room. When he comes back, he is empty handed, and his gaze is nothing if not understanding, and he, the Sheriff, feels the shame he should feel at that.

(His son  _is_ underage. He shouldn't even know what alcohol tastes like, in an ideal world, shouldn't  _understand_ the effects it can have on  _certain_ people.)

"Dad." The boy, the teen, (but a man in mind and maturity, because all those kids have grown up far too fast), asks, the same way he'd ask Claudia to confirm if she was  _Mom,_ or Mother, or some stranger with her face.

To his shame, he stays still. The teen nods, and pats him on the shoulder. He leaves, turns and leaves the room, and the Sheriff doesn't notice, too far into berating himself to be aware of the outside world. 

( _He shouldn't need his goddamn teenage son to do this shit for him.)_

 


	7. The fourth grade, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has had few friends in his life; though he used to have more. Erica, Heather, and a few other kids he knew at the park.  
> That all changed, between the third and the fourth grade.  
> This is a snippet of the fourth grade.  
> It includes; his father's... problem..., The McCall's come to town and amongst that a bunch of other stuff manages to happen as well.  
> (If you must know, his mother had died in the time between third and fourth grade. As is expected, he's still grieving. He'll quite obviously, never stop, but it's at its strongest then. Now. Whatever.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of the most ambitious part of this story, I would say. Let's see how much stuff can happen in this little snippet.  
> Also pain. Lot's of pain. But that's this story in a nutshell, and I actually think that this is one of the milder chapters, oh dear. No, it's definitely one of the milder chapters.

The day starts off so  _horribly_ normally, that the instant Stiles sees the other kids at school, the instant he walks into class, sees them  _happy,_ and  _innocent,_ and  _whole,_ with their  _stupidly alive mothers and non-alcoholic dads_ he immediately has a panic attack.

One of the other children notice, and as quickly as is possible, he's hurried out of the room and into the boy's toilets, and he's struggling to  _breathe_ because she's  _dead_ and  _no-one cares-_

' _Stiles'_ a boy's voice says, sharply, then softens. ' _Stiles, come on, breathe with me.'_

The other boy's breathing is unnecessarily loud and mechanical, but stiles  _focuses,_ as much as he can when he feels about to pass out, and  _tries,_ as hard as he can, but it's futile. 

 _'Sorry'_ the boy mutters, and he pinches Stiles' nose and covers his mouth, and Stiles stops breathing.

The other boy lets go, and Stiles  _heaves,_ breaths loud and exaggerated and  _breaths,_ relieved.

He punches Theo in the arm, though, because that was a mean thing to do, what the heck?

Theo laughs and shakes his head.  _'You weren't breathing properly.'_ he said.  _'My sister had one once. It's called a panic attack. She said she held her breath, and it stopped - I just remembered that. Good thing I knew, huh?'_

Stiles punches him again, both because he's an idiot and because people do actually punch their friends in the arm it's a thing go google it, then uses the wall and Theo's available shoulder to push himself into a standing position.

This has the desired effect; one of him standing and Theo falling over.  _'Ass.'_ the other boy mutters, and Stiles grins.  _'Whatever Theo. Come on, class has probably started already.'_

Theo grumbles and follows.

This is the start of the first day of fourth grade. 

It only gets worse from there.

* * *

 His dad is - Well, he's  _busy,_ so Stiles leaves the house and walks to the park.

Stiles is intent on talking to Erica or Heather, or both of them, to see his friends after a few weeks of no communication.

When he gets to the park, neither are present. 

The nine-year-old sighs, and goes to the swings. He sits down and kicks his feet aimlessly, the seat swinging slightly but not very well. He grabs the chain and swings harder, swings  _harder._

And  _harder._

He doesn't hear the girl approach, nor does he particularly  _want_ to. 

(He may have come here for the reason to talk, but now he's got that chance he's wondering if he should even try. Erica's got enough problems of her own without adding his to the pile.)

Even so, Stiles slows down his swinging when he sees her, and stops it by the time she's sat down on the other swing. 

 _'Hey.'_  she says, softly. _'Erica.'_  he replies.

There is a pause, the kind of awkward pause that happens when your friend was on a happy holiday with her family while your moth-  _mom,_ your mom was dying slowly.

They didn't get back in time for the funeral, and to be honest, he's kind of selfishly glad.

 _'...I - uhm.'_ She starts, but then stops and looks away.  _'I'm sorry I wasn't there.'_ She said, quietly.  _'I should have been.'_

He stays silent and thinks that they've grown too old too quickly, the two of them. 

 _'I can't - I can't empathise.'_ She says.  _'And you don't want pity. But I'm here if you just - want an ear. Someone, someone to vent at. To. About whatever.'_

He thinks that's exactly what he's been looking for, he knows she knows this, and he  _hates_ her for it, hates her for always knowing how to deal with him and his shitty problems. 

She reaches out, slowly, and takes his hand. She squeezes it.

 _'I have some bad news.'_ She said quietly.  _'I know you've already had so much, but I figured you'd want to know. Heather's being transferred. She's staying in the town, of course, but she's gonna go to some other fancy school in some bigger town than this backwater.'_

Stiles freezes, and her gaze holds nothing but empathy. He accepts it, because the three - four, more recently - of them are  _friends,_ and it  _sucks_ that Heather's leaving  _now,_ of all the times she could have left.

 _'Her mother's grieving.'_ She said quietly.  _'They were close, you remember? Once.'_

He did, of course, remember this - it was how he'd met Heather; through their mothers. 

It's a shame Heather's mom is sending her away, but maybe it's for the best. She shouldn't have to deal with his emotional baggage anyway.

He glances up at Erica, then looks back down again.

_Neither should she._

He squeezes her hand, and there's something final about it. She can sense it too, he figures, because when he looks up he sees the tears she's trying to suppress.

She finally lets out a single sob, and grabs onto him, hard, a surprisingly strong grip for a little girl. She sniffs, once, twice, but holds it together. Aside from the wet patch on his shoulder, there are no signs of her tears, aside from the tracks on her face of course.

(She's never been afraid of 'showing weakness'. He finds that makes her strong.)

Her smile is soft, and also final, a watery, wistful thing. 

He takes her hands in his, and they sit there in silence, for a while.

Finally, they relax, and he lets go when she does. His smile is as sad, as wistful, and he watches the girl leave.

 _One friend down._ He thinks.  _Two more to go._

The boy stares after her, and sits in the empty park, his thoughts loud in the silence.

* * *

Lydia Martin is perhaps the greatest human being to have ever walked the Earth, and if anyone ever says otherwise they may find themselves mysteriously falling down some stairs. 

It happens. The world loves -  _Everyone_ loves Lydia Martin. 

 _'It's never gonna happen Stiles.'_ Theo laughs, as they sit in Stiles' room. 

(His dad isn't home. They'd be at the park, if he was.)

 _'It could.'_ He protests, before sighing.  _'In an alternate universe, where Lydia Martin is interested in people with my kind of problems.'_

Theo scowls; an ugly expression, and punches the pillow, before sitting up.  _'Stiles.'_ he says, sharply, then sighs. Stiles shrugs. Theo grimaces and goes back to his comic. 

 _'Seriously though - it could happen.'_ Stiles mutters and gets a face full of pillow for his efforts. He picks it up and chucks it back at the other boy, and an all-out chuck-things-at-each-other-that-just-happen-to-be-pillows fight commences. 

The usually silent house is full of laughter when the Sheriff (Though that title is in precarious waters, currently) returns home. He scowls, rubs his temples, and goes to the cabinet, grabs a bottle of whiskey and goes upstairs. He raps on Stiles' door, louder than he meant, and curses, rubs his temple.  _'Keep it down.'_ he ordered and went into his office.

The house is suspiciously silent after that.

(It's silent the next day, as well. The Sheriff, however, does not notice.)

* * *

Stiles lands and looks up.  _'Well?'_ he hisses, calling out quietly to Theo.  _'You gonna come down here, or what?'_ Theo huffs and looks down.  _'I'm not jumping two storeys, Stiles.'_ Stiles glared.  _'Yeah, you are, wuss. I'm fine.'_

Theo rolled his eyes.  _'You're always fine.'_ he muttered, but he lowered himself out the window all the same. He swung for, and grabbed, the tree branch just outside the window, then let go of the windowsill and grabbed on with both hands. A scramble later and he was in the bough of the tree, looking down. 

 _'Well?'_ Stiles was getting impatient now, tapping his foot.  _'Can't you just - throw up a rope?'_ Theo asked, yet at the same time started trying to climb down the tree.  _'I'll throw up a rock if it gets your ass moving. Come on, you don't want S- ... Dad... to catch us, do you? I could be put under literal house arrest!'_

Theo was 'kind' enough to ignore Stiles' slip up and dropped to the floor.  _'Calm, Stiles. I'm done.'_

There was a pause.  _'What're we going to do now?'_ He asked. 

Stiles grinned.  _'We're gonna go out into the preserve, of course.'_

Theo grinned back.  _'Hale house?'_

Stiles nodded.  _'Creepy-ass burned down mansion? Yeah. Sounds like a plan.'_

The two shared mischievous glances and sprinted (quietly, ever so) off towards the preserve. 

At the same time, down the road, two moving vans and a car finally made it to their destination.

 _'Finally. We're here, Scott'._ A woman, the boy's mother, told him. A man got out of the car, six foot tall and yet not that imposing, and went over to the vans.

The woman frowned at him, then sighed. She got out of the car and opened the back door to let out her nine-year-old son.  _'We're here?'_ he asked, letting out a yawn.  _'Yeah, sweetie.'_ She murmured.  _'Bedrooms are all done; you want to see yours?'_ She asked.  _'Yes please.'_ Her son grinned, tiredness now gone. With a wary glance at the man, who must be her husband, she led her son inside the building.

_'let's get acquainted with our new home, Scott.'_

_'Okay, mom.'_

* * *

 The boys crash through the underbrush, joking and laughing and playfully pushing each other. They know this route like the backs of their hands - the Hale house has been empty since two thousand and four, and no-one else has claimed it as a hangout spot quite yet.

And, there's no Hale's in the town to tell them to go away, that this is private property. It's not, Stiles knows. The preserve is public; anyone can go there. And ever since the fire, the Hale house has been a part of the preserve; a place where teens dare each other to go in and whisper about ghosts and secret arson.

Stiles gets a nagging feeling whenever people consider it as arson rather than accidental, but his dad hadn't found any evidence to prove arson - and Stiles is not yet so jaded as to not believe the Sheriff when he says it wasn't. 

 At any rate, the two children arrive at the house and head on inside. 

 _'Still empty as ever.'_ Theo mutters, amused.  _'Yeah, well - this place could collapse at any time, couldn't it?'_ Stiles asked rhetorically.  _'I mean, anyone with an - any amount of sense wouldn't come here.'_

They glanced at each other, then shrugged.

 _'Guess we have no sense then.'_ Theo commented as he attempted to push aside a wooden beam that had fallen from the floor above. Stiles rolled his eyes and helped; grabbed on and heaved once, almost throwing the beam away from them. The wood clattered to the side, and they stilled when they heard worrying creaks and groans.

When nothing fell on their heads, they looked at each other, relieved, before moving on.

Once they got to the main room, they looked around. 

 _'Nothing much here.'_ Theo commented.  _'Why'd we do this again?'_

Stiles shrugged.  _'Boredom?'_ He offered. Theo nodded.  _'Yeah, sounds right.'_

The boys looked warily to the roof, as they listened to the creaking and groaning of the old house.

 _'Let's go upstairs.'_ Theo decided, before hurrying out of the room. Stiles rolled his eyes,  _'wuss',_ and followed sedately. 

* * *

 The next day, there was a new kid in class.

Stiles pretty much hated him on sight. This may or may not have anything to do with the fact that  _literally everyone_ loved the guy.  _I mean, I'm not saying he's not cool - well, he isn't cool, that's actually true, but he's... sweet, I guess, and kind and slightly awkward and has these puppy dog eyes and -_

_all that stuff that makes people like you and say I should be more of._

_Yeah. That._

But then Stiles doesn't hate him, because - like he mentioned - everyone loves the guy. 

Including Theo. And Theo doesn't really like anyone. Because Theo's not exactly what you would call a nice person, but he's actually great and is possibly Stiles' only friend but whatever that doesn't matter.

The point is; Theo likes the guy. Therefore, the other kid sits with them at lunch. Most of the time.

And, like Stiles said, he's sweet. Kind of adorable, in a weird puppy dog eyes kind of way, and then Stiles finds out he had asthma, and okay now he just feels like an idiotic mean person for hating him without any knowledge of the guy and what he's like.

_I mean._

_He's cool. Well, not cool, because cool people aren't like them; like kids with ADHD and Anxiety and a dead moth- mom and - oh god no not now-_

Stiles stood up, abruptly. Scott was on the other side of the room today, with his other friends  _and it's totally unfair that Lydia and the others let him sit with them I mean it's probably just the new kid thing but come on really -_

Stiles leaves the lunch hall, and Theo follows. People look because it just seemed as if the boy who'd been picking at his food had just randomly decided to abruptly get up and sprint out of the room, knocking over his food tray and letting fly everywhere. 

"Freak," Jackson muttered, and Lydia pursed her lips. Scott frowned, slightly, at Jackson. Jackson raised an eyebrow, and Lydia suddenly looked interested. "What?" Jackson asked - demanded, rather - and Scott said, "Why? He looked upset."

Lydia raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Jackson looked incredulous but shook his head. "Never mind," Scott muttered, frown still in place. They all went back to eating.

* * *

Stiles almost fell into the boy's toilets, and grabbed onto a sink almost immediately to hold himself up, he stared into the mirror, seeing when Theo arrived, the slightest bit of worry showing on the other boy's face.

"Come on Stiles," Theo muttered.  Stiles heaved, breaths coming in fast and not nearly enough. Theo handed him something - an asthma puffer - and Stiles blindly took it, looked at it then used it. It worked, miraculously. He looked at Theo, questioning, as he held up the asthma puffer thing. He raised an eyebrow, quizzical. 

"Scott's," Theo explained. Stiles huffed and threw it back to the other, who caught it easily. "You better get it back to him then. He could need it." Stiles grumbled. "You don't just take people's medication, god." 

Theo shrugged. "I wasn't going to stop you from breathing again if I could help it," He offered as his reason. "And it's not like Scott's going to be doing any p.e or whatever today. So he'll be fine."

Stiles shook his head. "Still. He could die, without that, you know."

Theo looked uncomfortable, but not unnerved. Stiles never really paid attention to that, though. "Come on. Get it back to him now, Theo; like I said, he could die."

The other boy nodded. "Yeah, alright." He agreed, before leaving the room. 

Stiles looked around. It was quiet, here. 

Like it was at home. 

The boy shivered, slightly, then hurried out.

If his actions were a little more attention-seeking after that, well, it was only a little and only for the rest of the day. The teachers never notice anyway. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went through and fixed some stuff; thank before_i_sleep for the actually correct American school system, unlike the mess I'd made previously, lol whoops.


	8. And so it goes, on and on, for months on end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol, he knows.  
> The Sheriff knows a lot about Alcohol. It's side effects, what too much can do, how to be drunk or in the middle of a hangover without your co-workers noticing.  
> However.  
> If there's one thing he knows - it's that he shouldn't have been around Stiles when he drank.  
> It's that he shouldn't have in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, each chapter is set at a different time.  
> This is a few weeks after Claudia's funeral.

His dad is the only family he's got left.

The man's doing a really bad job at that. Stiles knows this, because dad is acting almost like Cl- mo- mother was on a good day.

Except dad doesn't have an excuse. But he does, because - because she's _dead_.

And, in a way, Stiles knows certain things. 

Like how 'Jack' is actually alcohol, and has nothing to do with work. Like how his dad both means every word he says and none of it at all when he talks to Stiles whilst drunk - and that's what hurts most, Stiles thinks.

Because his dad - He's said it before.

He's acting like mom when she knows him but doesn't like him too much. It's not nice, is what it is, but Stiles is only nine and a bit. His birthday wasn't celebrated. His mother was the only one who noticed. 

 _(Happy fuckin' birthday, creep._ She'd said. He doesn't remember this, of course. Just that she'd remembered in the first place.)

Anyway - as was said; Stiles is only nine and a bit. He can't exactly go telling adults off now, can he? That's their job.

He's been doing it for years. Just only with -

Not with Dad. Maybe it would be best to just -

Sheriff. That's what he is now, for now, isn't it?

Not dad. He spends too much time drinking and working to be a dad. He never used to do this, but Stiles gets it. 

Sort of.

Not really.

But what Stiles thinks doesn't matter, in the end.

 _She's dead._ His dad says, and Stiles knows this.  _And - for - nothing can bring back the dead Stiles, for fucks sake. And you - better fucking get used to it, because she's gone and this is it now. This is us._

_This is our life now, Stiles, and for fucks sake just go to bed._

Stiles nods. He goes to his room, as asked. He sleeps.

And he gets used to it. 

Stocks up on headache medicine and healthy foods over delivery, retrieves his own Adderall prescription. 

Stiles learns how to cook properly, feeds himself. Properly. 

Does the washing. Ironing. Cleaning. General household chores.

Makes sure the bills are paid, no matter how much his dad scowls when he pesters him about it.

_Go away._

Stiles is stubborn. 

_For fucks sake, fine I'll put aside the bill money would you just - get me a goddamn beer?_

He's still drunk. 

It's fine. Stiles can deal. 

He spends most of his time in his room, of course. 

His dad commandeers the lounge and his office; spreading his police work all over the place.

Stiles reads it. Catalogues it. Once, he even ordered it, but he got yelled at for that so afterwards he just copied them and kept the copies all neat like his mom used to demand his Dad do. 

 And so it goes.

* * *

  _"Hey."_ Theo says, and stiles greets in kind.

They're in the park; Erica's still on holiday with her family and Stiles hasn't seen Heather around for a few days.

So it's just them. Now.

 _"How - is... everything going?"_ He asks, hesitantly curious. 

Stiles thinks about telling Theo, then and there. About his dad's drinking, about his anxiety and the fact he's been picking up his own prescription for ages but the nice lady at the counter hasn't batted an eyelid, not once.

She gives him those kinda gross sugar free candies and that's alright, he's good.

It's fine. He's fine. 

Stiles is sure his dad couldn't deal if he wasn't.

" _Fine."_ He said, replied. And - yeah. It's going alright. Not great, not bad just - 

Fine. Acceptable. He - Stiles can deal. 

And so, in the end... Stiles doesn't tell him. Not yet, anyway. 

(And never the full extent. Theo - he just wouldn't  _understand._ They're  _perfectly fine,_ and it's all - alright, and there isn't a single need for intervention. It's - going.

Fine.)

* * *

 

Stiles gets home from the park. As per usual, all the lights are on in the house, and he winces at the electricity bills.

Once Stiles is inside, he methodically turns off all the unneeded lights. Which is most of them. Two are needed right now; the kitchen, so Stiles can make food. Because that's very necessary. 

And the lounge. For his dad. The Sheriff. 

Stiles peeks around the corner of the door. His dad is passed out, a glass tumbler lolling dangerously in his hand. Stiles grimaces, goes over, and takes the fragile cup. He doesn't move it much; just places it on the table. 

Stiles wishes dearly that he wouldn't get into trouble for putting everything all tidy like his mom always demanded the Sheriff's work be if it were anywhere other than his office.

But she isn't here now, and so if his hand twitches he stills it and backs out of the room.

Slowly. Slowly. Quicker.

Flat out sprint.

He's fine. They're fine.

Stiles does the washing. The low thrum of the machines is as mind-numbing a background noise as any.

* * *

 

Stiles reads the side effects of his Adderall.

> _Stop using this medication and call your doctor at once if you have a serious side effect such as:_
> 
>   * _fast, pounding, or uneven heartbeats;_
>   * _pain or burning when you urinate;_
>   * _talking more than usual, feelings of extreme happiness or sadness;_
>   * _tremors, hallucinations, unusual behavior, or motor tics (muscle twitches); or_
>   * _dangerously high blood pressure (severe headache, buzzing in your ears, anxiety, confusion, chest pain, shortness of breath, uneven heartbeats, seizure)._
> 

> 
> _Less serious side effects may include:_

  * > _headache, weakness, dizziness, blurred vision;_

  * > _feeling restless, irritable, or agitated,_

  * > _sleep problems (insomnia);_

  * > _dry mouth or an unpleasant taste in your mouth;_

  * > _diarrhea, constipation, stomach pain, nausea, vomiting;_

  * > _fever;_

  * > _hair loss, loss of appetite, weight loss; or_

  * > _loss of interest in sex, impotence, or difficulty having an orgasm._




He finds it ridiculous that they treat what amounts to restlessness with... restlessness and other much more horrible side effects. But he still takes it.

Also, Stiles has Anxiety. Occasional Headaches. Sleep problems. buzzing in ears. Panic attacks; he figures they count as shortness of breath and uneven heartbeats. He knows he talks a lot, knows his emotions can be a bit weird and all over the place, knows he can be irritable, agitated. His heartbeat speeds up sometimes. His mouth is dry a lot. But that's all just -  _fine._

Adderall is habit forming, apparently. Stiles could care less.

His dad's got his own form of substance abuse; what does a little more Adderall than necessary mean in the long run?

Nothing. Stiles thinks. Nothing at all. Nothing anyone would care about, anyway.

Because he's  _fine._ Alright?

* * *

 

Stiles hears a crash from downstairs, then a lot of cursing.

Slowly, against his better judgement, he goes down stairs.

Stiles is wary when he sees his dad in the kitchen. The microwave is on the floor, and so is a smashed up bottle of Jack.

Stiles hovers in the doorway. He's learned, though he doesn't remember why, not to go in when the other is angry.

Again, he thinks maybe that's because of Cl- his mother. He just can't remember  _why,_ though. 

" _Fuck."_ His dad mutters.  _"Stiles."_ He turns to address his son.  _"Just - come 'ere, would ya?"_ He asks. Stiles complies.  _"Help me clean this mess up."_

His dad makes no move to do anything, for which Stiles is grateful. The boy turns off and unplugs the microwave from the wall, alcohol getting all over the soles of his shoes.

He turns, grabs a brush and pan and sweeps up the glass.

After which, he leaves. His dad's an adult, he can do the rest. And it's late. Stiles is only young, and he's  _tired,_ alright?

* * *

 

When he gets up in the morning, a Saturday, the kitchen floor is still covered in Jack. The microwave is gone from the kitchen; Stiles can only assume his dad moved it before -

Going to bed. Yeah, Stiles can be optimistic.

It's a possible thing. Just - very unlikely. 

With a sigh, Stiles mops up the spilled drink.

And this is how it goes.


	9. And The Debts Pile Higher, And Higher, And Higher.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eichen house, Stiles thinks,  
> is a... shall we say, freaky place.  
> (He may be seven, but he heard one of the older kids calling it a hellhole, a 'fucking creepy-ass 'mental hospital'... like one of them ones from the horror films, yeah?' - and somehow, someway... it feels inadequate.)

Stiles knows Cl- his m- mother did a 'Bad Thing', but for the life of himself, he can't remember it. He figures from what he's heard, over the past few days, that she did something either to him - Stiles - or said something... nasty about him or some other such event occurred...

But he has literally no clue. All he knows is his m- Cl-  _his mother_ is being sent to some - 'crazy house', is what he heard some older kid say. Then he'd said some other stuff his friend whacked him around the head for, and Stiles felt both worn out and angry as all hell, so instead of acting on either - he'd just left.

But that was a few days ago. A couple, more like; two - to be precise. 

And now, his Dad was driving them, the small... group of three, over to Eichen House so his mom could spend her last days among people crazier than her.

That was harsh. Stiles mentally backtracks.  _Slightly_ crazier than her. There, better.

No. He frowned. That wasn't what he meant. His mo-

Stiles rubbed his temples, when he realized the pounding was a headache and not an actual noise.  _Oops._ He thought. Maybe he  _had_ had too much adderall lately. 

Oh well. Mentally, the boy shrugged. He did that physically too, but he only really got away with not being questioned because of how he fidgeted constantly and consistently.

They kept on raising his Adderall prescription because of it. He wondered why; didn't they read the label? It says right there that the drug  _itself_ is the  _cause_ of restlessness. 

_Honestly._

Adults can be so dumb, sometimes. No wonder Jackson wants to be one so much.

When they arrived at the mental hospital, it was pretty much how Stiles expected, from the website and little books they'd gotten when looking for nearby places his mother could stay. Back when she'd been more his mom. 

They'd done it in case of emergencies. This one was close, and on the surface looked decent enough. And Stiles hadn't developed his penchant for paranoia quite yet in life, so no-one had dug any deeper.

(Things might have gone better if they had. Stiles  _and_ his father beat themselves up about it constantly. It's one of the things they agree on, in that not-so-distant future not-quite-so-close relationship of theirs.)

But that's all besides the current point. Stiles tries his best, and refocuses.

Eichen house, Stiles thinks, is a... shall we say, freaky place.

(He may be seven, but he heard one of the older kids calling it a hellhole, a 'fucking creepy-ass 'mental hospital'...heh, much more like insane people prison - like one of them ones from the horror films you like, yeah?' (He'd been talking to his friend.) - and somehow, someway... that sentence still manages to feel inadequate.)

The place is old, old, and echoing, and Stiles stays unnaturally silent throughout the whole ordeal. 

Everything gets signed over. His Dad frowns, minutely but still does so at the cost (steep, steep cost; it was more than just money.) but signs on anyway.

(Not reading the fine print. But that shit is so small even a Hawk couldn't see it, Stiles reckons - and, adding insult to injury...

It's not like anyone even  _tries_ to read it anyway.)

(Years down the line - heck, one, two of them - the man blames himself. The son, however, only blamed him during those years.

Stiles blamed his dad when he was acting... badly. Drinking, and not being there for him. His dad doesn't even remember the nights when he vocally blamed his son. So, in the end, neither of them talk about it. Ever.)

Claudia is swaying on the spot during the whole thing, lightly sedated, drugged as much as is probably legal.

Stiles hates it with a burning passion. He doesn't see; too busy glaring at the person holding the papers keeping his mother hostage - but the nearby young orderly narrows his eyes at him, and there's something wicked deep within.

Rooted deep within. It's written plainly on his face that he's an asshole.

(But then again, Stiles is probably biased. He doesn't really remember what he thought of the orderly, or if he even thought anything of him at all.)

* * *

Eichen house echoes. Stiles hears things he's pretty sure are happening on the other side of the place, and he tugs the sleeve of his Dad's jacket because  _she's not responding, it's creepy here, let's leave now, Dad._

They don't, of course. Stiles' dad talks to the near-comatose, response-less body of his FTD riddled wife, and Stiles sits there, in his seat, still because he'd been told off for fidgeting and there was something about that orderly that... wasn't right.

Stiles could feel it. In his gut. That was weird, he thinks - so he doesn't say anything.

Another hour passes, and Stiles both hates that they have to leave her behind and likes that they're abandoning that stupid insane asylum like any sane person would.

Hah. Stiles thinks that vaguely funny, even though he thinks that maybe he shouldn't. Oh well.

When they get home, Stiles finds his mind wandering - and, as per usual, he starts blaming himself for reasons he can't figure out, not for the life of him or any of his remaining people.

He swallows some more adderall, and he thinks maybe he shouldn't be so used to taking pills at the age of seven that taking them dry isn't even slightly difficult - like he sees the other kids in the doctors complain and drink and take five minutes, while he can just swallow them quickly.

He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Stiles settles on good, and distracts himself from thoughts too much for any person, let alone a young child.

* * *

 

His dad visits his mom without him, sometimes. Stiles stays home, or goes to Erica's, Heather's, or hangs out in the park or preserve with Theo. They stay away from his house so they don't have to play with his sister - who's alright in Stiles' eyes but then Stiles doesn't really know her. But Theo isn't a fan, and so Stiles has never met her.

Sometimes he wonders why. Stiles figures it doesn't matter.

So yes. His dad visits without him.

Another one of these visits happen - and then there is chaos.

The car drives up to the house, parks haphazardly, and the Sheriff exits it with Cl-Stiles' mother, and Stiles is both terrified as to why and horribly curious.

His dad tells him nothing, but Stiles can see the missing hair. He wonders why they were cutting it; it seems a waste of hair, in Stiles' opinion.

Neither tell him anything - not that Stiles expected his drugged-up mother to do much of that - and Despite that its only been a few months - stiles will be eight, soon - his Dad removes her from Eichen, and sets her up in the hospital again. 

And Stiles is so confused. 

Nobody tells him anything.

* * *

 

That night, Stiles checks the internet for the necessary things. Cutting of hair, mental institutions, etc, etc.

He finds Trepanation, and despises the hospital with all of his might.

_one day,_ he thinks - viciously,  _they'll pay for this._

And that, that is a  _promise._

And Stiles keeps the promises that matter.

 

 

 


	10. Wherein Stiles' Dad isn't quite... Stiles' /Dad/. And other stuff happens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Stiles knows about certain things. Stiles knows about Grief, and it's stages - and knows his dad seems to skip between them near constantly...
> 
> Aside from the last one. He's never been on the last one. 
> 
> (Stiles isn't sure he ever will be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. It's hard to find inspiration for writing such an angsty story, despite my usual levels of angsty writing, and also I've been ill.   
> So there's that.

The day is warm out. The sun is bright, and the sky is cloudless, bright, beautiful blue. 

_(Blue is pretty, is the reason he'll give the strawberry blonde for his choice in detective-ing string. Blue is pretty, he'll think, when he sees the eyes of the girl-coyote.)_

Stiles hates this, of course. With a bright and fiery passion, because whatever happened to pathetic fallacy? It should be dreary and miserable; raining or storming or some such weather.

It isn't though. Stiles can see that for himself, thank you very much.

So yes. The day is warm out, and he's alone in the park because his Dad isn't home, and being there in the silence is currently too much to bear, because his -

Stiles' grip tightens on the swing's chains. He doesn't want to think about that.

"Hey." A voice says softly; female, slightly softer than usual. _Pity,_ Stiles knows. 

"Hey yourself." He replies, turning his head and seeing Heather.

Soon, Stiles knows he'll say goodbye. For now, Stiles knows - and hates - he needs the companionship.

_(Stiles doesn't want to be alone.)_

The blonde sits softly onto the swing next to him, leaving the third free. 

There's silence, of course, because they're children and neither knows how to deal with this sort of thing quite yet. 

Hell, even adults have problems with this crap. Stiles would know - for example; see his Dad. 

_"I'm sorry for not being there."_ Heather says, and yes, alright - he accepts this. Because, well - she certainly should have been, he won't deny that, but it wasn't her fault her mother sent her away for a few weeks. 

Because of his mother's death. 

(Heather missed the funeral. Her mom was nowhere to be seen.)

Stiles hums, because he may accept her apology - which is both hers and not hers to give - but he doesn't really want to make her feel bad about it. 

The two sit some more, silent again, and Stiles knows the quiet isn't comfortable, isn't a companionable thing. Heather shifts, and he thinks she may be at least a little uncomfortable. 

Heather looks like she's about to say something, for a second, but doesn't. Instead, she grabs him, hugs him, then sits back awkwardly.

Stiles feels awkward too. He pats her shoulder. 

With a sigh, Heather stands. Stiles should probably be home before his Dad gets back from work, so he gets up as well. She offers a small, sad smile, and walks off. 

Belatedly, after staring after the girl for a few moments, Stiles wanders in the direction of his home.

_(This is the last time he sees her, face to face, for a long time._

_The next time is the night Heather dies.)_

_(He will always feel guilty for that.)_  

* * *

When Stiles gets back, of course his Dad is home already. 

He should have walked faster, maybe even run - Stiles knows this. He didn't want to, though. Hasn't wanted to spend time with his Dad since Cl-his mother died, since she stopped calling him  _urwis_ after his butchery of his real name's pronunciation. 

There were times she'd call him other forms of mischief, Stiles knows. He doesn't know which, and he doesn't remember  _why,_ but she did, and that's that, in the end. 

"Why weren't you home?" The Sheriff demands, and Stiles shrugs. 

"Couldn't stand the silence." He says, truthful for - for once. 

For recently, he hasn't exactly been honest with people. Stiles' reasons are his own. 

His Dad sighs, softly, exhales an uneven breath. The man nods, of course, and forgives, certainly, and Stiles knows it's kind of manipulative, but doesn't really care. 

There's a lull. An uncomfortable silence, and this would be when Claudia would have walked in, said something (he forgets what, in what way and manner and tone of voice) and the noise would come back, and they'd be happy and whole and wonderful.

But she's dead. Stiles - he needs to accept this.

He knows he never will. Perpetually flickering between denial and anger and denial and _I wish her stories were true, because if they were I'd find a druid and something could be done, **something -**_

Stiles closes his eyes. Breathes.

_One, two, three._

Noah coughs, and Stiles grimaces, and this is more awkward than that time he met his grandfather accidentally. 

He doesn't know what to do - never has, really. Perhaps its the social anxiety, or that he's never truthfully been any good at offering comfort, or perhaps he's just not the comforting kind.

Dad shakes his head, and Stiles wanders into the kitchen; tired of the silence and the loud white-noise buzzing in his ears from the lack of words that should be spoken, not being said.

Noah stands in the hall for a moment, sighs, and thinks _one drink won't hurt. Right?_

* * *

There's a kind of stifling silence, in a graveyard, Stiles finds. 

Currently, the recently-nine year old is sat, cross-legged in front of one particular gravestone, gently setting down a bouquet of flowers in front, placing a framed photo of the three of them off to the side. 

The boy frowns down at the happy smiles and shining eyes - and notes how young he was when they were happy. 

_Can't have been more than five,_ he thinks.  _She got diagnosed at six, and that was when that light left her eyes and Dad started getting those wrinkles._

Stiles nods. Yes, this was taken before then. 

"What're you doing here?" A young voice calls out rudely - or, at least Stiles takes it as rudely. The guy could just be as bad at conversations with strangers as he is. 

"What'd' you think?" He mutters in response nevertheless, and hears the other kid lean against one of the headstones or something behind Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't turn around to look, and the boy makes a sound of realisation when he sees the grave marker Stiles is in front of - 

Then understandably quiets down. Stiles knows that people tend to have a hard time with  _not_ pitying people when they find out stuff like this. He also knows that they tend to know he doesn't want their pity, nor does he need it. 

Condolences mean nothing, in the end. They're not gonna bring back the dead. 

Stiles hears the boy shift, and then he sees the side of him as the other gingerly places himself down next to Stiles.

He still doesn't turn to look at the boy.

_(Later, he'd recognise Erica's new friend if he had done so. Perhaps, that would have changed the outcome.)_

"Your mom?" The stranger asks, and Stiles inclines his head. 

A quiet huff. "What was she like?" The boy asks, and that's different enough from 'sorry' that Stiles feels obliged to answer. 

At the same time as not knowing what to say. 

"I don't remember much of her." He says in lieu of the truth - although, thinking about it; that's not a lie, either. 

Stiles gestures to the picture, and the other makes a noise of comprehension. "You were young, then?"

"Yeah." Because, in truth, he was. Nobody should have to lose a parent, but it should be a lot later in life than at nine years old. 

In his peripheral vision, Stiles sees the boy nod. He wonders suddenly why the boy is in a graveyard, and why he doesn't know Claudia Stilinski and Sheriff Noah Stilinski and their son by sight, considering it was all over the news and in the towns gossip as of late because of course it was, it's a small town; Beacon Hills.

"So wha'do you remember?" He asks again, and Stiles says... "She was kind."

Because, at one point, she was.

"Mom had loads of friends, I think, and people tended to like her. Full of life, and all that, y'know?" Stiles tells the kid. "She - uh. Frontotemporal Dementia. Shares symptoms with, ah - Bipolar Disorder."

He doesn't know if the boy reacts to that; since Stiles isn't looking.

In his peripheral vision, he does however see him nod.

For a few minutes, neither say a word. Then the other boy sighs, and stands.

"I'm wanted home." He says. Stiles nods, and the boy leaves, and that's that.

(Stiles stays for a while after. He never does find out why the kid was there, or who he was in the first place, until much, much later.

By then, they hate each other in a mild sort of way. So, by then, it doesn't really matter.)

* * *

 

When Stiles gets home, he smells that very smell he's been smelling since his mothers death and sighs, because - 

Because his Dad is drunk. Sloshed. Well and truly smashed. Stiles knows far too many ways to say someone's been drinking for a nine year old, but he dismisses this fact. 

The boy enters the living room, and his dad is there, on the couch, staring into a bottle rather then at the case files spread out in front of him. 

"Dad?" He asks, tentatively. 

"There was a car accident." The man mumbles, frowning, looking into the tumbler as if it's going to give him all the answers he's looking for. 

"A family; the Tates." 

Stiles nods. He thinks he's seen them around; thinks one might've been called Kylie, or something - and perhaps a Leah? He doesn't rightly know. They're the only other family aside from the Hales that live in the preserve, he's aware of that much. 

"A few nights ago." His dad continues, "Three of them were on the road. Mr. Tate was working, I'm pretty sure - at least, that's what I can get out of him." He sighs then, weary and tired and Stiles wishes his Dad had a job that took less than everything he has and more out of him. 

"Something was in the road, from what I can tell." Here, the man grimaces. "Some of the car looks like it was shot, but -" Here, he grunts -" That doesn't make any sense!" 

The glass is thrown across the room, and shatters against the wall. Wincing, the Sheriff moves to pick it up, but he's still drunk enough to mutter on about the case.

"Aside from that mess, because no-ones sure if there even was anyone else at the scene, because there's no evidence aside from the bullet dents and casings to point to there being anyone - one of the bodies is missing. The oldest of the two daughters; Malia."

_Oh. So that's what her name was,_ Stiles thinks, as he flicks through the files he by rights shouldn't be anywhere near. 

"I shouldn't be telling you this." His dad mutters, as if reading stiles' thoughts. The man drops into the armchair, and Stiles frowns up at him, neatly ordering the files as his mother would have wanted.

" _And,"_ He continues on, regardless, "As if somehow to make this even _more_ confusing, the car looks like an animal with extreme strength and human-shaped paws - about the size of a child's hand - _freakin' clawed it's way out of the car._ " 

The Sheriff, worn out and tired and drunk and grieving and - stiles knows - not in any condition to be dealing with this kind of case, drops his head back onto the seat.

"We might have to rule this an accident and call it cold." He admits, and  _wow_ is he drunker than Stiles thought; if his Dad is doing  _that._

Stiles looks down at the images, ignores the ones of the car because - well, alright,  _maybe_ he's a little squeamish - and sees the bullet casings and the tyres' skid marks, sees the car after the bodies were removed and feels a little faint at all the blood - 

But he can't deny his dad's observations. It really does look like some creature tore it's way  _out,_ and that can't be right; the report states quite clearly that their dog was at home, and it was too small, too young for the strength needed to do that anyway. 

"Humans can do crazy things in - in dire situations." Stiles offers, stumbling on word choice because - well, because he's  _nine,_ alright, he doesn't have the best vocab yet. 

His dad, of course, dismisses that idea straight out of hand. Stiles knows why - it is massively far-fetched to think a young girl could do that if necessary.

Still. Stiles has always liked far-fetched odds. 

His dad blinks a few times, seems to register that Stiles is who he's talking to, telling all of this to, and he sighs, again.

"Go to bed, Stiles." Noah says, and his son does just that. 

_(Neither sleep well that night. In fact, neither truly sleep at all.)_

 

 

 

 


	11. There's always an end. They just wished this one hadn't come by so soon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beeping of hospital machinery rings in Stiles' ears as he sits in the chair in his mother's - mom's room, holding a batman comic open on a page he isn't reading. 
> 
> She's been silent for a while, now. The Doctors say it'll be soon - the Thing Stiles is resolutely not thinking on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all I can say is this:  
> Pain.

Stiles parks the jeep on the side of the road, where it's legal. For some reason, the town's graveyard is nowhere near a car park - so he just parks on the side of the road.

Stiles drops out of the jeep, opens the back door and retrieves a bouquet. The teen sighs, closes his doors, locks the car and enters the graveyard.

It doesn't take too long to to get to Claudia. To his mother's resting place.

"Hey, mom." He says, replaces the old flowers with the new. It took him a while, but he's able to call her that again, now.

(He was never really sure why it was difficult to, for a while.)

"It's mother's day." He says. "Well, sort of. Some stuff came up - the supernatural, you know how it is - so I missed actual mother's day."

He paused. "This'll have to do, though."

Stiles sat down, cross-legged, between her grave and the next.

"I guess your stories were true, after all." He laughs. Blinks. "Weird, that, isn't it? I guess you saw stuff that we couldn't, huh?"

Stiles picks at the fraying hem of his jeans. It's quiet, here, in amongst the grey stones and green grass. "I hope Heather's doing okay up there." He says. "At least Erica and her have each other again, yeah?"

Stiles looks off to the side. 

"I like to think that 'up there' is just a better version of 'down here'." He says. "Like you just live your perfect life, or something - happy and content." 

Stiles moves onto picking the grass as he talks. "It's not the most romantic or religious or whatever version of what comes After, but it's sure nicer than what some think, in my opinion." He pauses. "Not to mean yours was lesser or something, or Dad's is wrong. Mine's just different." 

Stiles cocks his head at Claudia's headstone. "What  _was_ yours?" He asked the air - obviously expecting no answer. "Did you think once it was all over, you'd drift of into some sort of oblivion?"

Stiles looked up, towards the sky. "I sure hope not." He says. "It doesn't sound comforting."

Stiles looks back down. "I know I always say this and you're probably pretty tired of it by now, but I'm sorry." Stiles says. "I don't really know why, or what for, but I'm sorry."

He's always felt so very,  _very_ ** _sorry._**

His pocket buzzes, and stiles fishes out his phone.

"I guess that's all I got time for, huh?" He comments, sighs, puts his phone away. 

Stiles pulls himself to standing. "See you next time, yeah?"

And with that, Stiles is gone.

* * *

The beeping of hospital machinery rings in Stiles' ears as he sits in the chair in his mother's - mom's room, holding a batman comic open on a page he isn't reading.

She's been silent for a while, now. The Doctors say it'll be soon - the Thing Stiles is resolutely not thinking on.

Stiles looks up, for the third time in the last minute, and searches his mom for any signs of consciousness, of clarity - and, as usual, finds none. 

Stiles sighs, looks down, and doesn't read.

* * *

 

_"You killed your mother, you hear me?"_

_"He's trying to **kill** me!"_

* * *

Stiles drops a bouquet onto his mother's grave, quietly fuming.

 _"Why?"_ He asks. This is the first time since the Dread Doctors' arrival that he could come here, and it just  _had_ to be after he read that damned  _book._

There's a loud silence, and Stiles will never get the answer he's looking for.

"I was a  _kid,_ ** _mom._ " **He accuses. 

There's a pause, and Stiles drops to the ground - in between Claudia's grave and the next.

"But it wasn't your fault, was it?" He sighs. "It was the FTD, hell maybe it was even the Eichen House visit - though my memories are still foggy, that might have been after."

But it wasn't the Eichen house visit. Because she'd done it - not physically, maybe (because he still doesn't quite  _remember-)_ but in other ways... certainly - before Eichen was ever a part of their lives.

"I wasn't killing you," Stiles vows. "The FTD was. You would've had it regardless of my existence." 

Stiles is  _sure_ of this. FTD isn't caused by  _having children,_ that's  _ridiculous._

"... I'm still sorry." Stiles says. "For what happened to you. How the FTD pretty much destroyed the person that my mother was." Stiles breathes, closes his eyes and anchors himself by digging his fingers into the hard earth, down between the blades of grass that grazed his fingers.

"I think you gave me a guilt complex." Stiles says, finally. "So thanks for that."

There's another pause. "And that was uncalled for." He huffs out. "Because, again, it wasn't really you. No court of law would blame the mentally ill, so why should I blame you?"

Stiles stares, out across the sea of stones. 

"So many more new graves." He sighs. "So many unmarked ones, too. And a mass pile-up.  _God,_ this town's a mess."

Stiles turns his head back to his mother's grave. "Dad's dating  _Lydia's mother,_ of all people." He laughs out. "Which is very strange."

There's a pause. "I'm glad, though." He adds. "Because your shadow stretches even now, mom. And - it's not exactly healthy to dwell for so long."

Stiles stands. "I'll see you next year." He says. "And the year after. But I'm not really sure what to think of you, anymore."

Stiles drops the grass he'd pulled out, turns, and walks away.

* * *

His Dad wasn't here.

That's all Stiles can think, as the flatline of his mother's dead heart rings and  _rings_ in his ears. 

His Dad wasn't here.

Stiles is sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, with his head in his hands and his dead mother on his mind, a ringing in his ears.

And his Dad isn't here.

(He wouldn't be for too, too long.)

* * *

"She was a wonderful woman." He reads out. "Full of love, and life, and happiness. Claudia wouldn't want us to dwell - she'd want us to remember, and to live. To live for her, and for ourselves."

Stiles drops the dirt into the grave. There are enough people here for him to feel uncomfortable, but he hides it. 

His mother is dead. And people don't come back to life.

Stiles drops the dirt. And says goodbye.

* * *

 

_"Is that how you treat your mother?"_

_"You're not my mother."_

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrrry it's been so lonnngggg---

**Author's Note:**

> ....  
> ...Okay, so this hurt like hell to write, and I pretty much hate that I felt a bit of backstory was needed; if canon gave us a concrete one, I wouldn't have felt the need to do this. But all we've got is some mentions, Party Guessed and the episode in season five I cannot remember the name of wherein Stiles relives his mother doing pretty much what his hallucination of his dad did at Lydia's possession party. Oh, sorry, I meant shittiest birthday ever party, yeah these kids have been through far too much.


End file.
